


What We Cannot See Will Last Forever

by n_a_feathers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, and the morning after, the bus ride home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 02:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20107684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a_feathers/pseuds/n_a_feathers
Summary: Hellfire could not be hotter than the burn of Crowley’s leg against Aziraphale’s own as they rode the bus back to London.The night before the morning after.





	What We Cannot See Will Last Forever

Hellfire could not be hotter than the burn of Crowley’s leg against Aziraphale’s own as they rode the bus back to London.

Sitting side by side, their shoulders and arms and hips and thighs and knees jostling together as the No. 6 to Oxford headed in a very not-Oxfordian direction. Probably millions of strangers experienced this exact same thing every day as they moved about the world, knocking and bumping into each other. How could they do it day in and day out and think nothing of it? How could it ever be treated like a trivial thing?

For Aziraphale, it was the sweetest kind of torture. Crowley always hovered close, dangerously close – but he never touched. Like the moon orbiting the Earth, if they’d ever come into contact it would have spelt disaster. Their fingers had touched once, 80 years ago now, and the memory was as vivid as the day it had occurred. Aziraphale brought it out occasionally and treated it like a historian handling the oldest and most fragile manuscripts of centuries gone by, scared they might crumble to dust at any moment. That night, the night their fingers had brushed together, the night he’d finally realised…

And for months afterwards he’d fretted dreadfully, worried that Heaven had seen not only the touch but the turmoil inside his head that followed.

And Heaven finding out wasn’t even the worst of it. If they had have, all Aziraphale would have gotten would have been a strongly worded note. Now, Hell, on the other hand, if they’d known back then about what had been going on under their noses for most of history, Crowley could have been killed. So they’d always been so careful about touching…

The bus turned a corner and threw them together again. Aziraphale shuffled back into his seat and righted his coat and vest before stapling his fingers together again and resting them against his stomach.

Why did these seats have to be so narrow? Aziraphale was wound up like a first string, on the verge of snapping at any moment. Perhaps he should ask Crowley to move backwards a seat so they were in their usual configuration. That would be comfortable and familiar.

Oh, but that would hurt the demon’s feelings terribly; and besides, it just wasn’t the right way to end the day. Awfully tempting, still, if only for his nerves. He had to keep reminding himself that this was okay now. It was okay for them to touch. Heaven and Hell already _knew_.

Still…

“Are you alright, angel?”

Aziraphale startled. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Crowley’s eyes, so clever behind those frankly ridiculous sunglasses, were focused with frightening intensity upon his face. How long had he been watching Aziraphale? What could he read upon the angel’s face? Crowley looked at him askance a moment longer through his dark lenses and although Aziraphale longed to avert his gaze, he couldn’t.

Then Crowley gave up on his scrutiny and went back to staring out the window. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.

It was forty miles back to London, along country lanes and motorways alike, and every jostle seemed to push Aziraphale closer into Crowley’s space. He felt conscious of his mortal body in ways he’d never been before. He held himself rigid, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands white-knuckled where they clasped together in his lap.

Crowley was right, though: They were on their own side now.

There would be a test, of course. A trial, perhaps. This sort of thing couldn’t happen without the higher ups getting involved and trying to make some sense out of it. Ultimately, though, the secrecy they’d maintained for all of his and Crowley’s millennium-long acquaintance had been rendered moot when they publicly faced off the end of the world together, side by side with the Antichrist. They couldn’t have thought up a more explosive declaration if they’d spent the last 6000 years planning it. So what did it matter if their legs bumped up against each other on the bus now?

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop,” Aziraphale had said as they waited on the bench for the bus to arrive. The delivery man had just left, taking the package that had been a border between them.

Crowley turned the most pitying eyes on him and Aziraphale’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. “It burnt down, remember?”

But even as Crowley was saying it, Aziraphale knew it wasn’t true any longer. The bookshop was an extension of himself that he had put centuries of time and love into. When Adam had first given him back his body, he had felt the loss of the shop like an amputated limb. That was no longer the case, though; he could feel it. He thought that perhaps Crowley sensed it, too, if the twitch in his cheek was anything to go by. A moment hung between them, gravid with the knowledge of the spoken untruth. Aziraphale looked at Crowley and Crowley looked back at him, each waiting for the other to say what they both knew.

Crowley’s mouth opened, hung suspended for a moment and then snapped shut again, and Aziraphale dreaded that it might have to be him who would have to break the illusion. He didn’t want to, though. He didn’t want to go back to the bookshop after everything that had happened and be alone. He wanted to stay with Crowley. Perhaps he could convince the demon to have supper with him before they had to part ways, and drinks afterwards of course.

He was just about to open his mouth and suggest they find some late night bar that also did dessert when Crowley turned to him and said, “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Well. That wasn’t what Aziraphale had been expecting at all. And he couldn’t deny that the idea was incredibly tempting. If Crowley was willing to play pretend, then Aziraphale was too.

His refusal then was merely tokenistic, the dying gasp of the conventions that used to bind them (or keep them apart, as the case may be), and was easily brushed away by Crowley’s reminder: they had no side anymore, except their own.

They were on the highway now, the opportunities for tight turns greatly reduced. Aziraphale regretted and welcomed it equally. As the bus passed by signs for the turnoff to the M25, Crowley groaned, covered his face with his hand and sunk deeper into his seat.

“Oh dear, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied, eyes trained stubbornly on the middle aisle rather than out at the approaching exit lanes to the other motorway.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Certain.” Aziraphale thought he heard him mumble something about chickens and roosting or maybe it was sowing and reaping but whatever it was he did say, it wasn’t directed at Aziraphale and so he pretended he didn’t hear.

When the M25 had disappeared into the horizon behind them, Crowley straightened up again. They were back in Greater London now, although still a good forty minutes to Crowley’s flat without some minor traffic miracles to speed them along. Aziraphale didn’t make the effort.

He’d never admit to it, but Aziraphale found himself actually missing the rock music that was usually the background to his and Crowley’s trips together. Oh, he did so hope everything worked out alright with the Bentley. It wouldn’t be fair if he got his bookshop back but Crowley didn’t get his Bentley.

The closer they drew to London, the closer Crowley seemed to press up against him. Not that there was a single bold movement into Aziraphale’s space; it happened in increments too miniscule to be seen. By North Acton the line between them was ambiguous and Aziraphale could feel the heat of Crowley’s gaze on him through his sunglasses. By White City Crowley had laid his hand out, invitingly, on his own thigh. A few minutes later it had inched a little more to the right, closer to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale unclasped his hands and only then realised how tightly he’d had them folded together. There was a dull ache in his muscles as he laid his left hand on his leg. It took until they exited the A40 before Aziraphale worked up the nerve to move. Like the inevitable pull of gravity, their hands came together, touching along the broad stretch from the hypothenar eminence to the proximal phalange and that was that.

The bus drove them all the way to the middle of Mayfair, right to the front step of Crowley’s flat.

By Crowley’s own admission, he’d acquired the property sometime in the 1930s after seeing that Mayfair was the most expensive square on the newly released British version of the Monopoly game. Aziraphale supposed it was as good a reason as any to pick where to live.

In 80 years, Aziraphale had never been inside, though. Walking through the door, he got the distinct impression that the flat reflected very little of the real Crowley and rather more the way Crowley wished people to perceive him: as a suave, modern human. It had always been his habit. Aziraphale didn’t understand the urge at all. He had always liked Crowley just the way he was.

Crowley discarded his glasses in the entranceway and led Aziraphale off to the left and into the kitchen. It had every modern convenience that one could ask for – futuristic gadgets that wouldn’t look out of place on a space mission; an industrial-style oven fit for a fine dining restaurant’s kitchen; bibs and bobs in the cupboards that Aziraphale didn’t know the purpose of, much less the name. He would place money on not one of them having ever been used.

“Cup of tea, angel?” asked Crowley, opening a cupboard.

“Something stronger perhaps?”

Crowley smirked. “That can be arranged.” He took down two wine glasses and went searching for a suitable vintage in the other room.

With only a single wall separating them, Aziraphale suddenly felt they were too far apart. He was struck with the urge to follow Crowley, and the urgency and intensity of it was the same as the compulsion he’d had to give his flaming sword to Adam and Eve. He stayed where he was. To distract himself from the thought, Aziraphale licked the tip of his finger and ran it around one of the glasses’ rims and made it sing.

“I’ve got a 1936 Chateau Latour,” Crowley said on his return, brandishing the bottle in front of him for Aziraphale’s approval. “Put it aside for a special occasion.”

“That sounds lovely.”

As Crowley poured, Aziraphale made a decision.

When Crowley handed him his glass, he did it in their usual manner: Crowley holding the stem and Aziraphale taking it by the bowl; that is to say, very carefully and making sure not to touch.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said, accepting it. But at the same time, he placed his other hand on Crowley’s arm and gave it a light squeeze to accompany his smile. He lingered only a moment afterwards before letting his hand fall away and retreating to give Crowley some space to process his actions.

It was a declaration of a choice made: _I’m with you_. _We’re in this together_, c_ome what may._

Crowley looked down at his arm in stupefaction. He had the face of a man who’d seen his heart’s greatest wish realised and was too scared to believe it. He looked up at Aziraphale, his eyes naked, his affection reflected there unobstructed.

“Angel…”

The moment hung between them, gravid like Eve with immense possibility.

Crowley downed his entire glass in one swallow and then coughed as it went down the wrong way. He refilled his glass harriedly, took it up and walked away.

“Come through to the living room?”

“_Is_ this a living room?” asked Aziraphale, following him through the door and into a room that more resembled an office.

“There’s a TV and chairs, aren’t there?”

“Yes, I suppose it does have that going for it.” Aziraphale gingerly picked up the garish one that sat by the doorway and moved it further into the room, even as Crowley went to get the ostentatious throne he obviously used regularly from behind the desk. “Did you know? Dostoevsky described hell as being perhaps nothing more than a room with a chair in it.”

“And this room has two,” announced Crowley as he placed his down with a thud.

They settled down and the awkwardness between them melted away as they realised that although everything had changed, when it came to the two of them, nothing had. Whatever Aziraphale and Crowley had been to each other before, that they were still.

Aziraphale relaxed as much as possible into the terribly angular chair he was sitting on. It did make him miss the lovely plush sofa in his bookshop. He sipped his drink and took the opportunity to look around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“No, you don’t,” said Crowley with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, yes, I admit: it’s not to my own taste. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a certain…” Aziraphale twirled his glass around, looking for a word that wouldn’t get Crowley’s hackles up and finally settled on: “charm.”

Crowley shook his head and took a deep swallow his wine. “This’s why I’ve never invited you over. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

Aziraphale frowned. Poor Crowley, always so hung up on other people’s opinions of him. “Now don’t be like that,” he said and, emboldened, reached out and patted Crowley on the leg. “It’s a perfectly lovely house. Very modern. Very… bitching.”

That made Crowley laugh and Aziraphale was glad. He turned and looked behind him and past the verdant greenery of Crowley’s plants. There at the end of the hallway was a statue and if Aziraphale squinted he could make out limbs entangled and wings akimbo. He looked away.

At the other end of the flat was an eagle statue, very basic in form, wings spread menacingly in the dramatic lighting Crowley seemed to favour. But then, no, Aziraphale noticed the book laying on the eagle’s wings and realised it was a lectern.

He was struck with a feeling of recognition.

“I’ve seen that before somewhere.”

“Have not,” Crowley said suspiciously fast without even looking to see what he was talking about.

“I don’t see how you could possibly know what I have or haven’t seen. We haven’t always lived in each other’s pockets.”

“Trust me.”

Aziraphale racked his brain. If it was here now in Crowley’s flat then he must have seen it somewhere they’d been together. The style of it didn’t look any earlier than the Baroque period which narrowed down the timeline substantially, and Crowley had been asleep through most of the 19th century. They’d met in St James’ Park in 1863 and then not seen each other again until 1941…

The church…

“Wait, is that –?”

Crowley stopped him with a desperate look. “Don’t say it.”

Aziraphale mimed zipping closed his lips but inside he was feeling quite chuffed. He was certain he was right. That was the eagle from the church. He hadn’t realised that night was as momentous to Crowley as it had been to him. He wriggled in his seat in satisfaction.

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?” asked Aziraphale, knowing exactly how he was smiling.

So they sat on Crowley’s terrible chairs and over several glasses of wine, they hashed out a plan.

As midnight neared, Crowley slouched in his chair even more than usual and his blinks lasted for seconds at a time. To banish a demon, Aziraphale merely had to make some noise about having work to do, but more often than not, Crowley knew when to excuse himself. As such, Aziraphale had never had the opportunity to see him this physically tired before.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“I’m fine,” said Crowley, shaking himself awake. “’s just been a long day.”

“You should rest.” Aziraphale began to tidy up the glasses and bottles around them and take them through to the kitchen.

Crowley followed behind him, his steps heavy. “What kind of host would I be if I invited you over and then abandoned you to go sleep?”

“You’d be a terrible one. It would be awfully devilish of you.”

Aziraphale turned from putting the bottles in the recycling bin to find Crowley sprawled against the kitchen island, eyes heavy-lidded. He shot Aziraphale a look that said he knew exactly what the angel was playing at.

“Point taken,” he conceded, though. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”

Aziraphale found it endlessly fascinating to watch Crowley prepare for bed. It was never something he’d ever tried himself – sleeping, that was – nor had he ever had any particular desire to. But watching Crowley go through the motions Aziraphale had only ever seen performed on TV programs, he couldn’t help but be tempted. It all seemed so quaint.

“Are you sure you won’t be bored?” asked Crowley, even as he was pulling the sheets back and climbing in.

Aziraphale took a seat on the end of the bed. “How many times over the years have you sat by and kept me company while I ate?”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Make yourself at home then,” said Crowley before tucking himself under the blankets and rolling to his side. “Good night.”

Aziraphale kept watch. It had been his first duty and now it might be one of his last.

Crowley slept until late morning the next day. After the first few hours Aziraphale began to worry. He knew that humans slept for about 8 hours a night but angels and demons weren’t supposed to – full stop – and so he didn’t know what was normal for Crowley.

And he was so still! More than once worry overcame Aziraphale and he praised the fact that even though they didn’t need to breathe, he and Crowley had been on Earth so long it was now just second nature. He went and knelt by Crowley’s bedside to watch the rise and fall of his chest and listen to the soft susurrus of his breathing and felt reassured. After the tenth hour Aziraphale was tempted to try to wake him. Then he remembered the long absence, Crowley’s century of sleep, and he worried slightly less.

The night lasted much longer than it rightfully should have. This was not hyperbole: Aziraphale felt the universal distortion in the fourth dimension, very similar to what Crowley had done earlier that day. Not so much a stopping, though, just a stretching. Adam was a quick study. What a clever boy. And that tired 11-year-old had obviously had a big day and wasn’t ready to give up the comfort of his bed quite yet.

Aziraphale spent the last few hours pottering around the flat, so woefully empty of nice things like books and records and those fun little what-nots that could be piled high with all kinds of interesting items.

(“Junk, angel,” Crowley had said, picking through playbills and ticket stubs and letters from humans long since dead. “All junk.”

“Memories,” Aziraphale had corrected him, plucking the program from the show they’d seen last week from his hands and handing Crowley another glass of red instead.)

He was perhaps a little too gentle with the plants. Crowley would surely be displeased with him when he woke. Aziraphale hadn’t it in him to mean, though, and they responded so beautifully to a kind word and a soft touch. Aziraphale sat down amongst them for a few hours of his wait and told them the story of his and Crowley’s acquaintance and they leant in towards him and drank it up as though the words were nourishment. They were good company. 

Crowley began to wake around eleven. It happened in increments but Aziraphale first became aware of it with the rustle of sheets in the silent apartment. He returned to the bedroom and resumed his vigil.

Crowley tossed and turned for another ten minutes or so, then a single eye cracked open and revealed a sliver of gold cut through with deepest black. It didn’t stay open long; Crowley turned into his pillow with a smothered groan. He muttered into its fluffy depths something Aziraphale couldn’t make out.

“I beg your pardon?”

Crowley turned his face to the side again, giving Aziraphale a glimpse of both eyes this time. “You haven’t been sitting there watching me the whole time, have you?”

“Of course not.”

Crowley made a disbelieving grunt and pulled himself up to sitting through an elaborate series of rolls and stretches. He ran a hand through his bed-hair and smacked his lips together with a look of distaste. A moment later his hair was miracled into its usual effortless-looking style and a hint of minty-freshness was upon his breath.

“Would you like to go out for lunch, angel?” Crowley asked with the pillow creases still upon his face.

The thought of going outside scared Aziraphale more than facing down Armageddon did. They had talked at length last night about what the next day might bring and none of it had been particularly comforting.

“Not yet,” he said and Crowley accepted the answer without question. 

So Aziraphale followed Crowley around like a lost duckling as he went through the mundane task of dressing and then misting his plants. Every so often, when the plants didn’t seem properly scared, he’d send a chastising look the angel’s way and Aziraphale made a point of pretending not to notice.

That took them through to midday.

“Ready to go out yet?” Crowley asked, extending his hand into the space between them.

Aziraphale looked at it and felt anew that dreadful lurch in his gut. He shook his head. “Not quite.” He tried to smile but it didn’t quite work. “If this is all we get, let’s enjoy it a little longer.”

So Crowley put on some music in an effort to, in his own words, “bring Aziraphale into the 20th century at least.” It all went over Aziraphale’s head, though, and the little lesson into modern music didn’t last more than 10 minutes. Crowley very quickly gave up in frustration.

By that point, Aziraphale was getting a bit peckish. Despite not needing to eat and not finding any particular joy in food like Aziraphale did, Crowley’s refrigerator was filled with everything one might need to keep even a gourmand satisfied.

Aziraphale turned from the open door to Crowley lounging against the kitchen island. “Why do you have all this food? You don’t even like to eat.”

“No reason,” Crowley replied but there was a flush to his face.

Between the two of them they managed to muddle together something vaguely edible. Then Aziraphale ate it and Crowley sat opposite him and watched with a fond smile on his face.

And it was in that moment that Aziraphale realised that if he was never going to see Crowley again, this would be the perfect memory to end their millennia-long association on. They would probably see each other again before the final confrontation – but not in their own faces.

So let this be it then: Aziraphale filled and warmed in equal parts by good food and good company; Crowley, eyes unguarded in a rare moment of honesty, filled to the brim with affection; the fire of victory in them, the certainty of having done the right thing against all odds and having done it together. Could one really ask for more?

Aziraphale set down his cutlery and took up his serviette, dabbing daintily at his mouth. Then he stood as Crowley regarded him with curious eyes and held out his hand.

“Now?” asked Crowley, and somehow their roles had been reversed. Amazing that so much fear and uncertainty could be packed into a single word.

It was right, though. Aziraphale felt it in his bones.

Right like giving the sword to Adam and Eve. Right like stopping the apocalypse. Right like making a deal with a demon.

“Yes,” he answered with certainty.

Crowley took his hand.


End file.
